


Battery Pitch

by Rumcity, teanation



Category: Marvel (Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst and Humor, Drumline AU, Emotionally Crippled Erik Is Fun To Read, M/M, Pining, Questionable terminology, Shaw isn't the bad guy I promise, Unresolved Sexual Tension, non-powered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumcity/pseuds/Rumcity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/teanation/pseuds/teanation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier has one last chance to reclaim the 54th Annual West County Drumline Festival Cup before he graduates. He's got a pretty kick-arse team behind him - by which he means they'd better be kicking arse in the competition, else Logan will be kicking theirs.</p><p>There's only one thing that could possibly throw him off course: a long buried history with longtime rival Eisenhardt’s College’s The Brotherhood’s Erik Lehnsherr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Xavier University, Westchester, 1998_

  
  
“Wilson get the fuck in line or you’re going to end up running 3 extra rounds around the field naked with just your fucking cymbals!” Logan growled across the field.  
  
Charles Xavier, Drum Major of The Xavier Drumline brushes sweat off his upper lip to hide his grin as Wade tosses and twirls his cymbals in the air while running towards their drill ensemble.  
  
The weather is relatively cooling, announcing the end of summer on the otherwise green field and shrubbery surrounding Xavier’s University in the calming state of Westchester. Charles takes a deep breath, and allows himself an indulgent moment to imagine the leaves, in a few weeks time, turning a fiery red, orange and yellow, giving the cold, brown brick walls of Xavier’s surroundings, a wave of vivid colours as the weather gets gradually colder.  
  
Surveying his drumline in position with their new recruits lining at the back, Logan chews on his cigar and motions Charles to start his address.

“Alright. Tomorrow, we will be at Genosha for the 54th Annual West County Drumline Festival. As usual, we expect everyone on time at 0-7-0-0 hours with your instruments, bags and your best behaviour. Are we clear!?”  
  
“YES SIR!”, a loud and clear reply belts out across the field and echoes among the bleachers. Even though The X-Men are all standing rapt at attention with tilted heads, instruments at ready position, locked legs on steady ground, the tension at the lines of Hank’s shoulders and the crease between Alex’s brows are almost tangible.

The Annual West County Drumline Festival, a one week adventure camp for the top performing Drumlines of 5 elite college Drumlines. An annual festival inclusive of  rigorous training, practices, the much anticipated drumline competition, outdoor activities and bonding adventures between 5 colleges: Xavier’s University’s The Xavier Drumline, West High College Drumline, Canvas University All- American Drumline, Sun State University Drumline and Eisenhardt College’s The Brotherhood Drumline which had been (and still remained) The X-Men’s long time rivaling champion for over 10 years.

Charles takes a step back, relinquishing control of the training session to Logan.

"Ladies and ladies--" 

Charles beams when none of the new male recruits this year so much as grimaces. Then again, Logan's method of dishing out inhumane corporal punishment to anybody who didn't like what he had to say and didn't have the brains enough to shut up about it was undeniably effective.  
  
“As per tradition, our new recruits will join us at the camp, but not on the field. Regardless, I expect you bumbling morons to train as hard as--" He suddenly tugs the cigar out of his mouth and draws an imaginary strike in the air. "Scratch that. I expect you to train _five times_ as hard. Not that I'd actually allow any of you to sub for any _indisposed seniors_ ,"  
  
And here he narrows his eyes at the frontline, as if daring them to even think about getting sick or - God forbid - spraining a wrist, both elbows and very nearly breaking a rib thanks to a three-storey fall from the window of the West High Drumline girls’ dormitories.  
  
That they had clinched the Championship despite the bass drummer's absence hadn't mattered to Logan when he had forced Remy to run cross-country as punishment for breaking curfew and as Wade aptly put it: 'consorting with the enemy'. As if everyone else had been sharing Charles' train of thought, every single gaze shifts away from Logan to where the bronze-haired boy stands in the last column, smirking unapologetically.  
  
"Without further ado." Logan shoves the cigar back into his mouth, and curls an arm outwards, rolling his eyes as the seniors scramble to get into the starting formation.

As they begin their training, all is well.

That is, until the explosion happens.

The loud blast - coming from the science building overlooking the field, judging by the thick smoke pouring out of one of the third floor windows - shatters whatever semblance of peace that Charles had taken time to appreciate not fifteen minutes ago. Nobody quite spots the flying projectile until it is nearly too late, and then everyone is scattering like flies. Only Logan, standing about three feet away from the nearest deserter, stands his ground.  
  
Charles had been afforded a fleeting glimpse of the missile - barely bigger than a baguette, and suspiciously familiar - as it flew overhead, steadily losing momentum before neatly embedding itself into the ground, missing Logan's boot by mere inches.  
  
 ** _T.S._ **  
  
Charles had spotted the initials, carved rather crudely into the metal hulk in white chalk. _Goddamn it, Stark._ He strains to think what exactly was the purpose of the missile - really, Tony had only been bragging about it _yesterday_ \- and then it hits him, but before he can shout out a warning to Logan, the blasted thing is sputtering a stream of fireworks, projecting only as high as Logan's shoulder before the sparks die out.  
  
It would have been a pretty sight, save for Logan who was currently serving as a grim backdrop, eyebrow disappearing into his hairline and looking severely unimpressed.

Tony Fucking Stark, Charles’ best friend - who declared himself part of the X-Men during freshman year with Charles but who hadn’t actually picked up an instrument, much less join in for training -  announces his presence using the science block’s audio system he hacked into weeks ago.

 _"Greetings, fellow collegiates. What you have just witnessed is the test-drive for an extremely top secret government project. Attempt to tell no one of what you've seen, or I promise - I will find out who you are and--"_  
  
 _"Mr. Stark, please refrain from accessing the school intercom without authorisation and retrieve your experiment from the field."_ The wry voice of Emma Frost, school director, cuts in before the feed abruptly ends.

Charles bites down gently on his lower lip as he watches the unmistakable form of Anthony Stark trudging down the steps, shoulders stiff but his trademark megawatt smile still in tact. Eventually he reaches Charles who is already prepared to offer an encouraging word or two - _you'll figure it out in no time, there’s a chap, no need to sulk_ \- when he spots Tony's look of self-satisfaction. In fact Tony doesn't seem the slightest upset as he surveys his handiwork, conveniently ignoring the darkening look on Logan's face.

"Don't tell me. You crashed it on purpose."  
  
Charles is rewarded with a toothy grin and an arm thrown over his shoulder as Tony pulls him close. His nose immediately picked up on the strong odor of sulfur and...  
  
"Do I smell _gunpowder_?" Charles squawks. "Tony what the hell did you--"  
  
"Oh hey, it's still in one piece!" Tony cries out, looking far more surprised than he has any right to be. "Great, that means I can just reprogramme the control chip for the real--"

CRUNCH CRUNCH CLINK. _CLATTER._

Charles and Tony both turn at the same time to see Logan lifting his boot from the the chaos of nuts and bolts, stray wires and burnt metal. "Whoops. Sorry, bub, didn't see that there. Hope it wasn't anything too important." Logan offered, with an estimation of what must be an apologetic smile as the rest of the drumline shiver. Speaking of which...  
  
He looks around at the kids, as they stood in what was clearly not the formation they were supposed to be in at this moment.  
  
Some of them had even somehow gotten it into their thick skulls that just because a fucking missile the size of a PET bottle had virtually threatened to blow them sky high, that it was somehow _okay_ for them to be sprawled on the ground dramatically clutching the area where Logan supposed their hearts were located.  
  
Well it was definitely _not okay_ in Logan's book. In Logan's book, there were penalties for any direct disobedience of orders.

"Ladies." The smirk on his face widens, and the students having the misfortune of standing close enough to see it happen, pale immediately. "I believe you owe me a bit of corporal punishment.”

As Charles recites the penalty accorded to each offence (three laps around the field if they had broken formation, six if they had sat down since or were currently sitting and ten if they had laid their instruments on the grass without direct permission), Logan digs into the back pocket of his pants for another cigar - how the hell was he already down to his final stick anyway?  
  
Lowering himself to the ground, where the scraps of metal were housing a small fire that had probably caught from a dying spark, he lights the cigar, inhaling the smoke deep and long.  
  
Charles was leading the drumline now, around the field, and Logan knows from experience that Charles will run the maximum ten laps he doesn't deserve, with the ones who actually do because of their (meaning Charles’) band motto: “One for all, and all for one”. He will jog alongside, shouting encouragements and chanting along with the band. Though he has come a long way from his mollycoddling years and Logan’s got a fair bit of pride in being responsible for that.

 

* * *

 

  
_Genosha, 1998_

  
  
Their campus bus swerves into a wide archway, finally arriving at Genosha, an abandoned small university ground with an impressive main building with over 200 rooms which will act as the students’ dormitories for the next week and a huge stadium to serve as their practicing grounds.

“Fuck.” Alex hisses under his breath, which is probably the only warning Charles gets as he grabs his duffle bag from the bus storage space, turns around and promptly freezes.The Brotherhood members stand not too far away from them with their bags and instrument cases, in their black training polo shirt with its trademark red stripe across from right shoulder to left waist, and dark navy shorts.  
  
As if in unison, all 30 members of The X-Men and The Brotherhood pause in their stride to acknowledge each other’s presence, even the juniors, who have not been spared the rumours and history between the two rival teams. And as always, Charles locks gaze with Erik Lehnsherr: Brotherhood’s very own incumbent Drum Major.  
  
Erik doesn’t seem to have changed much physically since they last saw each other at the 53rd Drumline a year ago, still as lean, tall and handsome. Though he has changed; gone is the default teenage stoic shyness that was Erik a few years ago and there in its place, a confident, clipped-speaking leader with a vicious charisma, but then again as Charles ponders this over, so has he; they both had changed since their disorienting encounter at Genosha during their Freshman year.

Remy blows a low whistle as the Brotherhood conducts their own silent appraisal and Charles glances over at Raven standing beside Azazeal, her fellow Brotherhood member, sharing an amused look and no doubt thinking back to 4 hours ago when they had said their farewells back at home.  
  
Logan rolls his eyes at the classic parody welcome scene of every year and lumbers off as Charles smirks over at Erik, motioning his section to continue their pace to their respective dorm rooms as he hanged back to wait for Erik, grinning as the Brotherhood and X-Men exchange mocking glares and light shoves while Ororo and Angel catches up with one another. Erik closes the bus luggage compartment and saunters up to Charles.

“Are the Blackbirds ready this year?” Erik teases as they walk side by side across the field.

“If my memory serves me well, it was us who took the championship last year.” Charles shoots him a smug grin.

“We'll see. The Sharks are ready.”

As they arrive on a path leading to two separate sections of the Genosha dormitories,  Erik lips twitches up into a small smile, directing it far off in the distance. “Its... good to see you, Charles.” he says, before turning to depart on the left lane towards his dorm building. Leaving Charles smiling, taking in his surroundings for the next seven days, (for the third and very last year) once again in the light of dawn and autumn air.

 

* * *

 


	2. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Moira gets them to overcome their fears and someone gets thrown out of a window.
> 
> Freshmen and Sophomore Year flashbacks and Overcoming Fears..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Index:
> 
> 1998: Graduate Year  
> 1997: Sophomore Year  
> 1996: Freshmen Year  
> 1995: Senior Year at Westchester High

_Genova, 1996, Freshmen Year_

  
Charles likes his band training attire. A white polo shirt, with black accents and linings paired with a similarly white and black shorts. He likes the way it feels on his skin; soft and textured. He loves his drumsticks too, at that, he caresses it from tip to butt then back to the shaft, holding it in a traditional grip, - yes he has heard enough from both Tony and Remy’s penis reference jokes - and did a perfectly in timed cadence on his snare.  
  
He is on the bleachers with Ororo, Wade and the others, cleaning their instruments. Biting his lip, he surveys his seniors doing their marches and formations down at the field and rolls his eyes at another of Stryker’s screaming matches. He grips his drumsticks tightly and rolls it back and forth on the front of his shirt, taking a deep breath. Charles is at his first West County Drumline Festival with his seniors and he is feeling slightly nervous.   
  
He continues cleaning and polishing their black snares as he ponders over Stryker. The man was cruel, vindictive, disrespectful towards his students and a right menace. Everyone in the band despised him. The X-Men has not been improving either; quite the contrary seeing as they lost the West County Championship to The Brotherhood last year. Looking towards his fellow batch of bandmates, Charles is boldly certain they can and will do so much better under the baton and training of another instructor. He hadn’t joined this band just to watch them skid down the path to destruction led by William Stryker. Charles grits his teeth as he controls his sudden burst of contempt.   
  
Even Logan would be a much better fit for the job.  
  
Looking around, Charles catches sight of a group of Brotherhood members making their way towards the stadium locker rooms but before he can turn away - a familiar pair of eyes and a set of thin wide lips, the unmistakable jaw line. Erik. He stares and struggles to register that Erik is in The Brotherhood, Eisenhardt College.  
  
He starts and winces when Wade finishes cleaning and plays a staccato rhythm set on his cymbals. As he looks back to the Brotherhood members for one last glimpse of Erik, he notices Erik’s intense gaze casting around, before focusing on him and catching the perceptive recognition in his eyes. Charles felt his eyes widened and sends a close lipped smile, quickly glanced away, hiding his eyes and the spreading blush on his cheeks.

“Dude? Charles? What happened to your face man. Did you get a sunburn in just 5 minutes?” Wade waves his cymbals frantically in front of Charles as if trying to find out the best angle his cymbals can be used to shield the sun. Ororo rolled her eyes and whacks Wade with her cleaning cloth to shut him up.  
  
He shifts in his seat and groans softly when one of the Brotherhood girls shouts and walks over to them with the other members and Erik following behind, “Ororo! I want you to meet Azazeal, Janos and Erik, who is on snare, Azazeal is a cymbalist too and Janos is on tenor.”  
  
“Hey Angel, these two here are Wade and Charles. Wade on cymbals and Charles on snare, the others are doing extra training over at the backfield...”  
  
“Hi Erik.” _Why in God’s name did you do that Charles Francis Xavier. Of all the things you could why did you acknowledge Erik in front of the others. Why._ Charles curses as loud as he could in his head while outwardly, he’s all red-faced, pressed lips and flustered.  
  
“Hi Charles.. It’s good to see you... here?” Erik’s smooth, slightly accented voice has barely changed from when Charles last heard, a few years ago.  
  
Erik is still staring at him and Charles offers up a small tight lipped smile. It seems to register with the others then that they had been cast and faded into oblivion. Charles quickly pulls back and clears his throat, failing to miss a shared glance between Ororo and Angel. Damn it.

  
“Hey dudes, you guys are The Brotherhood man, so we probably shouldn’t be caught talking together...” Wade’s voice gets softer and softer while he faces the field and keeps his cymbal close to him, covering his mouth and moves his eyes at a rapid pace, glancing suspiciously from left to right.  
  
Ororo wacks Wade again, “Three’s a charm?”

  
“Xavier, Munroe, Wilson! Get your asses down here if you’re done!” Stryker’s scratchy voice breaks through the increasingly awkward silence between the X-Men and Brotherhood.  
  
Charles nods to the Brotherhood members, not daring to look at Erik and sprints down the bleachers, feeling Erik’s gaze burning hot on his retreating form.

 

* * *

 

 _Westchester, 1997, Sophomore Year_  
  
  
The beat-up Mazda is quiet as it passes by the lit campus of Xavier University, its occupants caught up in their own thoughts as they drove out towards the main road. Charles is restless, a bundle of nervous energy that he tries to expend by drumming his fingers against the dashboard. He recalls what Ms Frost and Logan had addressed to them an hour back in their band room and tries to remember if there was something that he forgets to address to his drummers. He hopes he won’t mess up his solo with the immensely tricky triplets and demi-semi-quavers in cut time even though he has been perfecting it for the past few months.  
  
It takes an embarrassingly long time for him to register that they’ve stopped moving, that the street outside is quiet and familiar.  
   
Logan is fixing his trademark gaze upon him, one hairy eyebrow cocked up, lips set in a half-grimace. On anyone else, Charles would have read it as concern. Just as Logan looks as if he’s about to say something – and Charles is genuinely afraid that he’s going to ask if Charles is _okay_ – a very loud, very pissed off Raven is yelling at them through the window of their third-floor apartment, making it clear to the entire neighbourhood that if Charles and Logan will not be able to make it home by the usual dinner hour, they had damned well better inform her instead of letting the cream pasta go cold.  
   
One might have thought they’d been burgled the way she was going on.  
   
In unison, they exit the car, Charles polite enough, or at least, guilty enough, to send the disapproving neighbours glaring out the windows at them an apologetic nod. Logan soldiers down the short pathway, annoyance radiating off of him in waves. They both know he won’t act on it, that he’ll allow Raven to snark for as much as she needs to. There’s more casualty involved when he doesn’t – and more often than not, Charles would bear the brunt of it.  
  
Tonight is different though. Raven doesn’t throw anything at them – though that doesn’t make either one of them feel any sillier for pausing shortly before they strolled through the unlocked door – and only shoves two plates of reheated pasta in their direction before she goes back to prodding the washing machine.  
  
Charles sinks back into the sofa as he remembers that tonight will be the last night he’ll be sleeping in his own bed for the next seven days. When he comes back from the Drumline festival, back to this apartment, with its grimy windows and mismatched furniture, the baton will have been passed from the incumbent Drum Major and Charles will either be the Drum Major of one of the best drumlines in New York, or he’ll be a nobody. The Drum Major of a nobody band.  
  
His pasta is tasteless and soggy – nothing to do with Raven’s cooking, of course – until Logan flips the channel to Cartoon Network and just as Tom seems about to finally catch his ever evading archnemesis, he hears Logan say,  
  
“It’s gonna be alright, kid.”  
  
On screen, Jerry pulls off another brilliant (unlikely) trick, leaving the scheming cat empty-handed once again.  
  
 _Yes_ , Charles thinks as he spins his pasta with his fork. _I rather think it will be._

* * *

  
_Genova, 1997, Sophomore Year_

  
The morning air tastes sweet and, dare Charles say it, triumphant as he lingers on the front steps of the dorm house, bags and instrument at his feet. His band members – and what a _thrill_ it is now, to look at them and call them _his_ members, now that they’ve been recognized as the best college drumline in the state – are moving in and out of the building and loading up the bus, greeting him cheerfully as they pass by.  
  
He hears a loud cheer coming from inside the house and turns just in time to see the Champion’s Cup, hoisted onto each shoulder of Kurt and Ororo, drifting through the door with half of the drumline swarming around it, as if it were a real physical burden to bear alone.  
  
One of the juniors makes a sound like some kind of victorious war cry and everyone is following suit, lost in the revelry of the moment. Even Alex is smiling.  
  
Charles is so pre-occupied in watching over the antics of his band members that he doesn’t notice someone sneaking up on him until the intruder is tapping on his shoulder, causing him to startle.  
  
“Oh! Erik!” He sounds appropriately indignant, but the twitch of Erik’s brow conveys only amusement.  
  
Charles crosses his arms over his chest. “Come to tell me that our win was a fluke, that it’ll never happen again, and that the Sharks are not going to show any mercy next year? Do save your breath, old friend, if that is what you were planning to say.”  
Erik’s lips are parted, shock turning quickly into surprised laughter. “You wound me, Charles Xavier. I really was only dropping by to offer my congratulations.”  
  
This time Charles is laughing, because Erik sounds like he’s trying not to sound sincere and this is pleasant, and comfortable. Almost familiar.  
  
And then Erik leans down and closer, to mock-whisper in his ear, his breath tickling Charles’ nape and he can see the fine comb indents, the reddish tones in Erik’s hair and Charles has to clench the hand hiding in his pocket because Erik... “And you’re right – it won’t happen again. We’re not going to show you any mercy next year, Charles, so enjoy your victory while you still can.”  
  
Charles wonders if its strange that Erik doesn’t lean back. He’s still watching Charles watch him and he’s _much_ too close---

  
A slight commotion at the dorm house entrance breaks the moment, and they both turn to look at Remy being half-carried and half-dragged down the steps by a straining duo of Hank and Wade. It’s a poor sight; Remy has bandages and support bands covering nearly every inch of skin, and he hardly looks as if he should be out of bed, much less being heaved around. Apparently Piotr, as gentle and kind as he was big, seemed to think exactly the same as he stops Hank and Wade at the foot of the bus.  
  
Without pause, he lifts Remy up carefully under the crook of his knees and arm, and ignoring the undignified yelp that Remy will swear later on did not happen, carries him gently up the bus.  
  
“Well, that’s your cue to leave, I suppose.” Erik says, nodding at the rest of the band climbing up the coach.  
  
“Yeah.” Panic overwhelms him suddenly as Charles fumbles for something more to say. _Quick, something clever, something witty, something that will make him laugh, you can’t let him leave just like that, Charles!_  
  
“So… we’ll see each other around?” Erik asks, and something jolts inside Charles, the stirring of a hazy memory that grows increasingly vivid and real at a disorienting rate.  
  
Erik is walking away, but he’s moving slowly, backwards so he’s still facing Charles when he says, “Don’t be a stranger when you do.”  
  
And then it isn’t morning in Genova - it’s night time and they’re in Westchester and outside a coffee house that doesn’t exist anymore, only Charles is the one backing away and Erik is standing there looking stumped for words.  
  
Charles shakes his head to clear the memory, and just as Erik is about to disappear around the corner, back turned to him already, he calls out,  
  
“Fair warning, Erik: I’m keeping the Champion’s Cup next year as well.”  
  
Erik doesn’t even turn around and what a shame, because Charles can hear him laugh, wants to see that smile, as the reply comes: “Don’t count on it, Xavier.”  
  
He’s still smiling when the bus drops them off at the gates of Xavier University.

 

* * *

_Genova, 1998, Graduate Year_

  
It is 0-5-0-0 on a Monday morning, - “well it's hardly a morning if the sun is barely out yet” Wade grumbles. Day one of seven and all 150 of the members participating in the West County Band Festival are standing rapt at attention, elbows locked, chins up, back straight, shoulders squared.  
  
The five drum majors of the drumlines are standing in front of their respective bands, surveying that all their members are present before Ms MacTaggert can start her address. Charles with his hands behind his back looks upon the assembly with the different drumlines decked out in their own training attire, all 150 of them creates an imposing sight.   
  
He eyes Erik standing tall and imposing a few feet away from him, addressing last minute orders to Azazeal, his second in command. Erik as Eisenhardt’s Drum Major was inevitable; he was capable, commanding, generally unnerved people, and although Charles hasn’t had the chance to see it, he’s sure Erik wields the mace just like he did with his drumstick -  like a goddamn _nunchuck_.  
  
After another two silent minutes, Ms Moira MacTaggert steps onto the platform and starts her customary welcome address. MacTaggert is a no bullshit Scotswoman, highly efficient and organized. She reminds Charles of Ms Frost, though of course, he wouldn’t want to be within three feet of them if they ever decided to establish further acquaintances.  
  
“Hello everybody, my name is Moira MacTaggert, Vice-President of the American Drum Line Association. On behalf of the ADLA, I am pleased to welcome you to the highly prestigious 54th Annual West County Drumline Festival in Genova. You have all assembled here today, as representatives of your institutions, to uphold the time-honoured tradition of pitting your skills and discipline as individuals and as a team against one another to determine which among you, deserve the title of the best drumline in the state of New York.”  
  
She pauses, as the students wolf-whistle and cheer, and smiles before carrying on.  
  
“I am sure that you will all do justice to the standards that have been set and constantly raised by your predecessors,” and with a tiny, dignified almost playful shrug, she added, “This is after all, _only_ a 50 year old tradition.”  
  
The seniors standing at attention, huffed and sniggered because they all know, despite what Ms MacTaggert says, it is anything _but_.

 

\---

_Genova, 1998, Graduate Year_

Erik does not like camps. Period. 

Though West County Band Festival is an exception, as there is usually a part of the camp where he enjoys the most; aptly named: “Overcoming fears”.  
  
Even saying the name gives Erik an orgasmic tingle down his spine. He looks over his shoulders, to Sean Cassidy and gives him a toothy grin with a wink.  
  
Now, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr is ready for some good old fashioned fun.  
  
The Drum Majors of the 5 bands are gathered together by Mactaggert. “Alright I trust you leaders to know how far -” at this she emphasizes by pointing both her index fingers, circling at all the 5 Drum Majors “- to take this activity.” Erik notices that Charles is two Drum Majors away from him. “Only common fears are allowed to try to overcome, such as fear of bugs, etcetera.”  
  
As they are dismissed back to their drumlines, Erik swallows as Charles huffs as an attempt to get his dark hair out of his eyes. It isn’t surprising at all to see Charles as the Drum Major of the X-Men. He commands presence well, he is respected by all, intelligent and charismatic, everyone loves him. _Goddamn it._  
  
“Comrade,” Azazeal whispers beside Erik, rubbing his carefully trimmed goatee, “What do you have planned for Mr Cassidy?” Erik raises his brows and tilting his chin, signalling towards the trampoline at the corner of the field.  
  
Gathering his drumline with a flick of his index finger, he goes straight to the point, “Cassidy, you’re up.”  
  
Erik looks to Janos Quested and Angel Salvadore, “Move the trampoline nearer to our dorm building.” They give him a mock salute and saunters off.  
  
Looking pointedly at Sean who is turning paler by the second, Erik snorts, drags him by the collar and marches him up to the third storey of their dorm building.  
  
“S-Sir.. I can’t. I have fear of heights.. Acrophobia it’s called..”  
  
Erik rolls his eyes. “I believe that is the point of this segment Cassidy. To try to overcome it.”    
  
They stand near the window ledge, with Sean slightly trembling, alternating between looking down from the third storey at the trampoline on the field surrounded by the other Brotherhoods and squeezing his eyes shut, creating deep wrinkles in a sea of red among floating freckles.  
  
“Just try, Sean. Get on the ledge. Go on. There is a trampoline y’know, you’re not gonna fall to your death.” Erik tries to make himself less imposing and more..... nurturing.  
  
Close by, Azazel snorts, hastily covering it up with a highly unconvincing cough. “Plus, it will help if you get high next time and a police raid happens.” That seems to help, seeing as Cassidy rubs his sweaty palms on his shorts and climbs unsteadily to sit on the window ledge, trembling legs dangling outwards.  
  
“Trampoline ready, Sir!” Angel’s voice travels up to them and Erik peers out, measuring if the trampoline is directly under Cassidy, and then flashes a thumbs up sign towards his members securing the trampoline.  
  
“Anytime now Sean.”  
  
Erik crosses his arms behind Sean and waits. It is a bad move on Cassidy’s part when he turns his head around, but before he can utter anything more than a “S-Sir..”, Erik takes pity on Cassidy, extends one of his arms and gives Sean a helping hand.  
  
“AHHHHHH”, a piercing scream travels downwards.  
  
A slight but still discernible _BOING_ follows after.  
  
And through the open windows, Erik leans out with his elbow stacked on the ledge and surveys as Sean’s figure, spread eagle, face-down, fiery ginger hair array, travels up the third storey and goes down again, as well as the other members’ heads tilt up following Cassidy and down again as he falls.  
  
 _BOING_.

  
  
“SOMEONE STOP THE TRAMPOLINE I HAVE CATAPEDAPHOBIA!”  
  
There is silence. Then a collective burst of loud, raging uncontrollable laughter comes from the ground level.  
  
Erik raised his brows and smirks down at his hooting bunch of Brotherhood. He was never really the nurturing type anyway.  

 

\---

_Genova, 1998, Graduate Year_

  
Thirty feet away and out of sight, the X-men sit in a circle on the grass right in front of their dormitory building, regarding one another with wary looks as they waited for Charles’ return. The unspoken question that passes through everyone’s minds: would it be worth making a run for it?  
  
That train of thought gets derailed when Logan comes stalking back, cigar already half-gone and a paintball gun held comfortably in his hands. He smiles at them, all teeth, and sits himself down on the porch steps. A full, unobstructed view.  
  
Escape was no longer an option. A mutiny then.  
  
But Charles is bouncing out now with all the enthusiasm of a newborn puppy and gods, if they didn’t respect and love their drum major so damned much...  
  
“Right! So, we’ve come to this part of the camp then. I always thought it was rather thoughtful of the Festival to be setting aside a bit of time to concern themselves with personal character development, don’t you think?” It’s a rhetorical question but the freshman recruits are nodding along, almost smiling as they do so because it’s _Charles_.  
  
Alex looks like he wants to strangle his juniors, and he’s really not alone, but the threat of Logan’s paintball-shooting skills hangs above all of their heads like a huge, grey, unpredictably violent cloud. It’s a popular rumor that he’d lined the paintball with titanium because Remy had sworn that one of them had created a hairline fracture on his tailbone when Logan had turned the weapon of mass aggravation on him last year.  
  
“Okay, so I’m going to throw this ball into the circle,” Charles waves around the basketball he had brought with him outside. “And whoever it touches first, will have to confess a fear of theirs. It doesn’t matter if it’s something as common as being afraid of the dark or of bugs. Nobody will make fun of you.” He regards the entire circle with a level gaze. “That’s an _order_. We’re one band and we look out for one another. Now who would like to volunteer?”  
  
At the word ‘volunteer’ everyone completely stills.  
  
"Anyone?" Charles sighs. No response. He decides to change tack. "Shall we have a senior to share then? As a show of good sport?"  
   
Twenty odd faces immediately pale and look away. Charles refuses to be deterred. "Kurt?" His protege and successor to the drum major position slowly pulls himself away with his sudden interest in demolishing the threat of weeds on the grass patch around him, and focuses his large, blinking pupils on Charles. Charles bites down gently on the inside of his cheek. The puppy dog look had never failed to take effect on him but he is not backing down from this.  
  
"How about you share a fear of yours, and we'll see how we can help you overcome it?"  
  
He can practically hear the wheels turning in Kurt's mind as the boy tries to come up with something meaningful but not potentially embarrassing.  
  
"I fear..." His hope spikes as everyone turns to look at Kurt, faces expectant. Charles resists the urge to sigh. Logan, having no such scruples, snorts loudly behind him.  
   
This was starting to look very, very tedious. MacTaggert had stressed that they were to carry on this activity until midday, and any group found to be using this time for practice or any other activity unrelated to the subject of confronting fear would be subject to being issued with demerit points - something the X-men could not afford.  
   
A distance away (and coming suspiciously from the direction of the Brotherhood’s dormitory building) Charles hears a shriek - definitely male, and certainly undignified. His lips press in a thin line as he wonders what Erik is subjecting his own members to...  
   
A hand suddenly shoots up into the air, thankfully distracting him from his train of thought. Ororo is not looking at him however - she seems to be alternating her gaze between where Hank is sitting and the general direction of Remy and Alex.  
   
"Yes Ororo?"  
   
"I fear that our band may lose the championship." She declares, but before Charles can reassure her that it is a fear they all share, she presses on. "I fear that the reason might be because some of our members refuse to get along."  
   
Nobody asks her to be more specific in her accusations. For all that the X-men loved nothing better than to tease and play pranks on each other, their solidarity as a team and between each individual was never in question. Except for two.  
   
Two members who now found themselves on the receiving ends of mixed scrutiny. There was some impatience, general amusement, and interest. A lot of interest.  
  
"Well, Alex. Hank. What do the both of you have to say to that?" Charles asks, easily falling into the role of moderator. As he so often does between them.  
   
Hank is the first to speak, sputtering as he points out that Ororo hadn't named anyone.  
  
"She doesn't have to." Remy rolls his eyes. "You two are the only ones with serious problems."  
   
Alex says nothing though the heat from his glare could scorch skin.  
   
Hank is looking sullenly down at his fingers now, imitating Kurt's earlier position and pulling at innocent grasses. His lips are moving but his words are inaudible, save for snatches of a fully resentful claim of ‘not my fault’.  
  
“Piotr, you’re in Alex’s section. What do you think?” Charles asks.  
  
The look in Alex’s eyes immediately doubles in hostility as it focuses on the hulking Russian native. Alex, as chief of his section, might have been feared for being tough on his members to a degree that made even Logan proud but everyone knew that he was every bit the concerned and protective senior regardless of the efforts he took to conceal it.  
  
Somehow, for no apparent reason, this kindness had stopped short of extending itself to only one person in the band. Hank, who had shown no prejudice against Alex, nor had he given any cause for offence. Hank, who Alex had decided by some justification known only to him, was not even worth a shred of courtesy.  
  
Piotr considers facing the wrath of his section leader later against for speaking out for the wellbeing of his fellow bandmates. One campsite could only take so much unresolved tension after all. Charles and that shark of a drum major from the Brotherhood pretty much reigned supreme in the area of Unresolved (Sexual) Tension. Piotr just wants them to get it out of their system but he also wants to be able to return from this camp with his balls intact, so out of deep respect for Logan, who is still sitting within earshot, he decides on the lesser of two evils.  
  
He spills his guts on everything he’s witnessed or heard happened between Alex and Hank. The insults, the devious attempts at sabotage, the toilet bowl incident (he keeps that one brief in detail), the surprise delivery of choice goods from Toys for Twinks that had coincided with a visit from Hank’s parents to his dormitory… by the time Piotr finishes, Hank’s face is a solid brick red.  
  
The fact that nobody seems to be able to keep a straight expression didn’t help matters.  
  
Everyone turns to Alex, expecting a sound explanation from the hotheaded section leader but he had already taken to lying down on the grass so all anyone could see of him was his raised shins.

 

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**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys like it! Unfortunately, it will be a slow update as both Teanation and Rumcity are both currently still struggling in the deep dark, bloodsucking depths of school. But don't worry, it will not be abandoned!


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